My Southern Charmer

The old adage is A picture’s worth a thousand words.  If that’s true, between all of the amazingness that I was able to catch on film this past week during our trip to North Carolina plus my budding little photographer’s work with a few being credited to Sean, there doesn’t leave much room for much else on this post.  But after you have a look, I think you’d agree it’s not entirely necessary.  

A Kennedy shot

She needed the bathroom and, of course, gave me about a three minute window to find one.  The museums were closing for the night and I saw a throng of people leaving so I grabbed her and made our way against the current to an exit where I begged the guard to let us use their restroom, God love him, he said yes.  The second I looked in the direction he pointed, I saw this guy.  It's like Kennedy's little brother was looking out for her. 

Our one nap in the car. The whole 14 hour drive. In both directions. Yes, this is factual. 

Sean was frequently scolded for not getting ready for the beach in a timely manner for the boss. 

A rare moment where she was quiet and lazy 

Ask her what her favorite part of the aquarium and she will tell you the map. Seriously. The map. 

I recently asked my sister if elephants have always been around so much or if I just notice them now because they remind me of Jack.  In any case.....

Daddy is far braver than we...

If there were any major takeaways from this trip it was this:  people that travel exclusively by car with their children are brave, brave souls, my child most definitely has both saltwater and sand pulsing through her body, for a Northeastern girl through and through I feel strangely at home below the Mason-Dixon Line, and lastly, Kennedy Egan has more southern charm in her little finger than most southern belle’s could claim.  

A week away with my two favorite people is exactly what this mama needed.  We may have left the warm weather behind but that’s alright; I happen to travel with my very own sunshine. 

Peekin' Around the Corner

 Here’s another strange thing about grief: it feels wrong to start feeling better.  Like, really truly wrong.  I think the problem is that it happens so slowly, almost imperceptibly, to the person grieving that by the time they recognized that it’s happening it feels sort of out of nowhere.  It could be that you're so focused on how sad you have been that you forget to take notice of the small steps you’ve been making; you let those moments slip by and so you don’t even pat yourself on the back for it.  And so then there is this guilt that builds up-you feel bad that you don’t really cry so much, or that you are actually enjoying things again, and you think to yourself, “How can I be feeling happy, there is so much sadness that took up residence in this battered heart, how can happiness have found any room in there?”  And so that’s what I’ve been battling these days.  I have been feeling pretty damn good, and it’s a bit of a relief, but there is also a heaping amount of confusion that goes along with that.

Like I said, it came on so gradual I don’t really think I noticed.  I’m sure other people did, but if so they were guarded with their observations and didn’t share them with me; maybe because there is a certain amount of pressure I feel whenever someone points out that I’m doing well-like I’m unsure of how long I can keep going with it.  But, little by little, I started doing more, I started laughing louder and the sound didn’t startle me, I started thinking about plans down the line.

My best friend is pregnant.  Sean and I are so thrilled for her and her husband, like deep down in our core happy.  A week or so ago we found out they are having a little boy and, God love her, she said, “I hope that’s ok!” because that’s the type of love and sensitivity she has shown us since we lost Jack.  I almost died because this is about her and I said of course it's ok! And it was! There wasn’t even a tiny part of me that felt sad about that, which at the time I didn’t even really stop to think how big that was; that it didn’t crush me.  

So I was feeling pretty guilty that I hadn’t sent them anything to congratulate them on all the excitement.  Sean, Kennedy, and I went out this past weekend to buy somethings to send up to Boston and to put away for later.  One of our last stops on our long day of errands was a baby clothes store and both Sean and the little lady had had it with shopping.  As I looked through the racks and racks of adorable, tiny things Sean started getting impatient to which I quickly replied, “Would you just stop and let me enjoy doing this?”  And I was.  I was looking through clothes that were very similar, or even identical to the clothes still hanging in Jack’s closet, the ones I still can't bare to box up, and you’d think it would be heartbreaking-but it wasn’t.  And that is when it hit me.  Like. A. Ton. Of. Bricks. 

I’m doing better.

I’m turning a corner. 

Well, maybe peeking around it,  but still, around the corner is in sight.  And it feels damn good.  Now don’t get me wrong, I’m cautious, what with Mother's Day coming up and all.  But the weather is good, we’ve got a trip to North Carolina coming up next week and there is all kinds of good stuff coming up.  And so, I’ve given myself permission to feel a little better, to not feel so guilty about it.  They say that grief is the price you pay for love.  I believe that.  But I also believe, now, that feeling better is the reward you get for surviving.  And there is nothing to feel guilty about that.  

Mother of the Year

So let me set the scene for you:  We are at hockey practice yesterday afternoon and getting Kennedy dressed and ready to go.  I arrived from work just in time to put her helmet on (she never seems to think Sean does it “the right way”).  I put it on and she instantly starts crying that it's hurting her head-embarrassingly loud.  I get it off and think that maybe her ponytail was too high and pushing against her head in the helmet and so I lower it to the nape of her neck and put the helmet back on and she seems appeased.  She gets on the ice and goes about her hockey business but wasn't doing a particularly good job following her coach’s directions (join the club, Coach Matt).  As practice went on you could tell she wasn’t feeling it that day and as she fell over and over, which she doesn't usually do, she was laying on the ice and taking her sweet time getting up.  Then the tears started.  She hasn’t cried that way since her first few practices and so after about the third burst of hysterics I opened the boards and told her to get off the ice, that “nobody wanted to hear her crying” (I know, real nice). So we get undressed and she’s whining her head hurts but we get in our cars and headed home.  I figured she’d had a long day, preschool and hockey, and was just really cranky.

As we pull in the driveway and I get out to help Sean unload her and everything else that a day out of the house comes with, she says, “ I think I’m going to frow-up!”  We get the front door open and she goes tearing into the house and into the bathroom just in time to vomit all over the toilet, but not in it.  As I am holding her hair back and then getting her cleaned up and changed, all I could think was- you’re such a bad mom, yelling at your kid for whining when really she was sick- really, just awesome.

There are so many times, as a parent, where you find yourself thinking that you’re doing an okay job; a stranger could compliment how well behaved or polite your little one is, or you watch your child do something on their own that you had showed them.  Now granted, these moments are usually followed, close behind, by “oh-crap” moments when you're hoping no one notices a parenting misstep.  But then, every so often you have moments where not only are you thinking I have no idea what I am doing! but that you are a downright bad parent.  In the back of your mind, where I think logic hides out, you know that it's not true, that you are just like every other parent that is finding their way.  But nevertheless, it's a feeling you get.  And it's awful.  It feels like I have a bad-mother-punch-card tucked in my back pocket that gets punched when I make a particularly ugly parenting move- hockey practice earned me one.

So I spent the rest of the evening trying to make myself feel better, fussing over her and making her comfortable in her bed, a towel on her pillow, some water and juice, little snacks that I convinced her to nibble on, and tucked her in.  I made sure the monitor was on in her room and mine and went to bed.

When I woke up this morning and was getting ready for work I heard her calling me around 6:45, like she usually does.  I went in thinking she would ask for her iPad and something to eat (always her first two requests of the day) but instead she was crying, “I was calling you and you didn’t come and I frowed-up on myself and my bed!”  And she had; awhile ago because it was dried on her face and in her hair and on her nightshirt, the towel wet.  I felt miserable.  Another punch on my card.

I set her up on the couch after she was cleaned up with a pillow and blanket.  I gave her a cold washcloth on her head and tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to get some Tylenol in to her while Sean stripped her bed and threw everything into the wash.  He left for work and I attempted to get keep getting ready while I waited for my mother-in-law to arrive.  Kennedy called me to sit with her on the couch every few minutes and whined at me not to go to work.  When Maryann and Bill arrived she said she was going to be sick again and as we ran for the bathroom we barely made it to the bowl.  She threw up more than I thought her little belly could hold and when she was finished I looked at my watch.  Usually I would be heading out the door but she wanted me to give her a bath and so I made it a quick one, got her dressed and cozy on the couch.  She was pouting out her bottom lip and crying just enough to crush my heart saying that she wanted me to stay.  We decided she should go to the doctor because we’d also noticed a rash on her during the bath.  I felt so guilty that not only was I leaving my sick baby but I wouldn't be the one to take her to the doctor.  Another punch.

I don’t know what it is.  I know all working moms have to deal with this, dads too.  Kids gets sick and you still have to go to work.  But it feels terrible.  It feels wrong to have someone else comforting your sick baby, even if it is a family member.  I cried on my way into work.  I wanted to be with her not with other people’s kids.  But it is good old state test week and I had to proctor the seventh grade.   But as I paced around the gym all I thought of was that I should have stayed home with her.  I should have just called in to work that day.

Aside from the bad-mom-feelings, I also, often simultaneously, have bad-employee and bad-wife-feelings.  All of these are important aspects of who I am but the problem is so often it is a hard balance.  It often feels like I am struggling to balance them all at once and so one or two or all feel like they are not getting out of me what they should or could.  The thing is, if I am being honest, being a mom wins out over all of the rest every time.  I love my husband something fierce, and my career can be incredibly rewarding, albeit rough these days, but being a mother- this trumps all. And so I left.  Was my boss particularly happy with me?  Probably not.  But my bad-mother-card had been punched far too many times in less than twenty-four hours and so I left.  I drove home to my baby and cuddled up with her on the couch and watched as many episodes of Jake and the Neverland Pirates as she wanted and soaked up the sensation that I was doing an okay job.

I know deep down I am doing the best I can.  I’m a mom running on half a tank and so sometimes I know I have to cut myself some slack.  But after a day like today it makes me wonder:  after you get ten punches on your bad-mother-card what do you earn?  A Mother of the Year mug?

Happy First Birthdays

After Jack’s birthday had come and gone I had convinced myself all of the incredibly significant milestones had passed.  We made it through all of them; survived all of them. But I forgot about a few days I’d have to brace myself for.  The two tiny humans that would most likely have been Jack’s best friends were turning one.

(photo credit: Google)

When two of my closest girlfriends, Shelby & Lindsey, and I had learned we were pregnant at the same time, and, more than that, due within weeks and days of each other, it was so exciting.  We’d compare ultrasound pictures and the aches and pains that went along with pregnancy.  We talked about how fun it would be to be on maternity leave together; to meet for walks at the park.  We excitedly reveal genders, one girl and two boys.  But as complications started to arise it was clear our pregnancy paths were diverging until mine took a sharp right and brought me to an early delivery and having to say goodbye to my boy decades before it could be fair.

As the months passed and they welcomed their little ones home, my heart ached.  Not because I wasn’t happy for them- not even close.  My heart ached at the thought that I would watch these beautiful babies grow up and in fear that I would only ever be able to see who was missing.  I was afraid to hold them; afraid that I would be betraying my own baby boy as I reveled in the warm baby weight my arms were so desperate to feel.  So I put it off for a bit but my love for their mamas and the love my broken heart was still managing to hold for them didn’t allow that for long. 

Because the truth is I knew these are Jack’s people; they would have been there for him, they would have been raised to accept him for all of his differences and taught to acknowledge all of the ways he was just like them and I love them fiercely, even in Jack’s absence, even if it hurts sometimes. 

And so when March rolled around and little Zoe turned one, sporting one of Kennedy’s baby headbands on her big day, I couldn’t help but feel so nostalgic about when my own baby girl’s first birthday had come.  I though about how Lindsey was feeling, probably sad in some way even though it was such a happy day.  It’s like your heart knows that infancy is gone but isn’t yet ready to accept it.  I brought her gift in to work, somewhat relieved there was some distance between the celebration and me. 

When Shelby texted to invite us to Crosby’s first birthday, truth-be-told, I panicked.  It wasn’t because I didn’t want to be there.  I did.  I just felt like I couldn’t be trusted to hold myself together as I watched this baby boy eat his cake and open his presents.  I remembered back to when my nephew, Mason, had turned one and how badly my heart had ached then.  But that was so shortly after Jack had died; I felt stronger now.  So I said yes.  I stressed myself out leading up to it and so when Kennedy woke up with a bad cold the day before I thought, “Oh, we can’t possibly go now,” (no, I am not above using my sick kid to get out of something).  But Sunday came and she seemed better so I made sure I let my Shelby know we were coughing and runny and when she gave us the go-ahead to come on over, I took a deep breath, wrapped his gift and headed out the door. 

I was anxious at first when I got there but Shelby, maybe sensing it-maybe just knowing her friend, offered me some wine, I gladly accepted and decided to enjoy my boy’s buddy’s big day.  And I did. I loved watching his confused face while his family sang to him and his big smile as he played with tissue paper and sat in his new toy.  I smiled as I watched Kennedy and Paige play and giggle and squeal so happy to see each other, hoping they’ll always be so close.

And at one point as I held Crosby, freeing his mama’s hands for a few minutes as she cleaned up, something happened.  Maybe it is me reading into a sleepy baby’s reflexive action, but it was like he knew I needed this, and he laid his little cheek against mine and sighed deeply.  For a minute my heart didn’t hurt.  It was like he was delivering a snuggle to me on behalf of his little friend that watches over him from above.